


An Ineffable Husband

by Stackthedeck



Series: Adventures in Time [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Pining, Victorian, oh wow oscar wilde is a character I can tag, the angst comes from pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19309264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stackthedeck/pseuds/Stackthedeck
Summary: Aziraphale is a huge fan of Oscar Wilde. In fact, his latest play is in theaters and Aziraphale wants to see it with Crowley, but it's not a date or anything. Crowley is not a huge fan of Oscar Wilde, but it's not like he's jealous or anything. Aziraphale seems to be obsessed with Wilde, reading his poetry to Crowley and inviting him to Wilde’s plays. The poet is too high and mighty for Crowley’s taste.This is part two of my series Adventures in Time but, you don’t have to read the others to understand this one.





	An Ineffable Husband

**Author's Note:**

> I have yet to read the Good Omens book (I'm getting to it), but I know that Aziraphale really likes Oscar Wilde in the book so I thought I would play with that. I also don't know that much about Oscar Wilde other than what's on his wikipedia page and from the monologues I've done in theatre class. So book fans and Oscar Wilde fans, please don't murder me. That being said, I hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> I realized halfway through this fic that Aziraphale and Crowley broke up in 1862 and this fic takes place in the mid 1890s so I have another fic on the way were they make up. Leave a comment with a guess of what time period that is!
> 
> Thank you so much to @LightningInABottle for beta reading for me!

Crowley runs through the street, one hand pinning his top hat to his head, the other clutching a note. The note had been delivered by a fancy lad and, as Crowley could imagine, the experience had been rather upsetting. For one, Crowley had taken to mingling with the lower class in recent decades, he found it easier to avoid Aziraphale (after the whole holy water thing) if they ran in different circles. So the delivery boy was certainly not used to that kind of neighborhood. For another thing, Crowley forgot to put on his sunglasses before answering the door. To top the whole experience off, the demon tipped him double. 

 

Anyway, the note in question is from Aziraphale. It simply asks Crowley to come to the bookshop at once to discuss matters of grave importance. Crowley’s not quite sure what these matters could be, but he’s running nonetheless.

 

“Angel!” Crowley shouts, bursting through the doors of the bookshop. He hunches over, hands resting on his knees as he sucks in air. “I came as fast as I could.” This isn’t true, strictly speaking. He could have come faster if he hadn’t changed into his nicest suit, the one he keeps around for if he’s going to mingling with the upper class again.

 

“Oh, that’s wonderful, my dear.” Aziraphale turns around and gapes at Crowley’s hunched form. “Are you quite all right?”

 

“You said — ” Crowley sucks in a breath “ — matters of grave importance.” He holds up a finger, takes another breath, and rights himself. “Is this about heaven and hell?”

 

Aziraphale knits his eyebrows together and crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“This isn’t about the holy water is it?” Crowley gasps.

 

“I told you to never speak of that again.” Aziraphale crosses his arms tighter and turns his head up, not looking at the demon.

 

“Right, but you’re not still mad at me?”

 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “I thought we resolved this last time we spoke.”

 

“Right, just checking.” Crowley removes his top hat and slinks into a nearby chair. “So matters of grave importance?”

 

Aziraphale smiles, the kind of smile he has when he’s about to mention a new restaurant he’s found. “I was wondering if you’d like to see a play with me?”

 

“A play?” Crowley balks, “like see a play and stroll through the park under the moonlight afterwards?”

 

“I thought wine would be more to your taste.”

 

“Angel, I have to ask, what brought this on?” Crowley was shocked to say the least. Last time they spoke in London, things hadn’t gone well. Sure, they had sort of made up between then and now, but this seems like a date. A genuinely friendly (or dare he say, romantic) gesture.

 

“Well,” Aziraphale twiddles with the hem of his jacket, “there’s this playwright, I’m rather taken with.”

 

Any hope that Crowley had allowed to bloom, pops. “You’ve never spoken about humans in such a way,” he says, carefully. Has Aziraphale described himself as rather taken with a kind of dessert? Yes, of course. Has Aziraphale described himself as rather taken with a well-aged wine? Yes, and Crowley had always agreed. Has Aziraphale ever described himself as rather taken with a human? No, never. Despite all his time on earth, he’s always seemed more interested in what humans can do, rather than the creatures themselves.

 

“Well, he’s quite good.” Aziraphale smiles, like he’s thinking of new books he’s come across. “I have some of his poems and novels in the shop, first editions you know.”

 

“You always did have an eye for tasteful literature,” Crowley says with a strained smile. Maybe that’s all this is, a new interest in the culture of the era. Of course, this is just Shakespeare all over again. That was… interesting to say the least, but he could deal with that.

 

Aziraphale walks over to a nearby table and picks up a stack of books. He drops them on the end table next to Crowley with a flourish. Crowley takes the one on the top, examining the cover. “The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde”. The cover is fresh, unlike the rest of the books in the shop, most likely printed within the decade. The title is unfamiliar to Crowley, but the name he has heard before. Specifically from the local hotel boys. Mr. Wilde is often described as highly educated and having expensive taste. Crowley gets why Aziraphale is taken with him and what’s worse is, Aziraphale might actually have a chance. But he’s an angel, he wouldn’t romance or do...anything with a human. It’s simply not what angels do. But, then again,angels don’t eat food, drink wine, nor run bookshops.

 

“Have you heard of him?” Aziraphale asks, grabbing the book back from Crowley.

 

“Oh, the name’s familiar,” Crowley says off handedly, shrugging.

 

“So will you come with me?” Aziraphale holds out a ticket. Crowley wants to say no, wants to  burn the theater down, to resume his decades long nap until Oscar Wilde is dust in the ground. But, Aziraphale smiles at him. His smile is like the sun, brilliant and  _ absolutely _ blinding.

 

“Of course, angel.”

 

The play is called “An Ideal Husband” and at first, Crowley thought it would be frightfully heterosexual. It’s not though. It’s a wonderful satire with some delightful homosexual subtext. Crowley wishes he could say he hated it, but he enjoyed himself (always did like the funny ones). His enjoyment only adds to his hatred for Wilde. 

 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale grips Crowley’s arm, “did you enjoy yourself?”

 

“I suppose.” Crowley pats Aziraphale’s hand on his bicep. “What would you like to do now, angel?” 

 

“Well…” Aziraphale worries his bottom lip, and Crowley tries his absolute hardest not to stare. “I thought we could go back to the shop and open a couple bottles of wine.”

 

“That sounds like my kind of night, angel,” Crowley says with a smirk. 

 

“We haven’t seen a play together in quite a while,” Aziraphale remarks casually as they walk. He bumps his shoulder into Crowley, keeping his eyes fixed upwards. Crowley bumps him back, earning a smile from his angel.

 

“I suppose so,” Crowley says, “I think it was Hamlet we saw last.”

 

“Yes, you were quite helpful in that one’s success.” Aziraphale stares at Crowley for a minute with a nostalgic look in his eyes. “We should see plays together more often.”

 

Crowley nods, slightly distracted by a new feeling in the air. While ethereal beings can sense emotions like love and joy, occult beings can sense vices, a yearning for sin. This can be quite distracting. The whole world reeks of sex, gambling, and gluttony. In the older days, the world had less gluttony and gambling and more murder. Crowley is used to blocking it all out, even the holiest of humans want to sin. Waves and waves of vice hit him if he even just steps outside. Gives him an awful headache most days. Angels are a little harder to sense, something about being righteous or something. (Aziraphale had informed Crowley that the feeling was mutual, he has trouble sensing Crowley’s emotions.)

 

The shift in the air, the vice Crowley is sensing, is coming from Aziraphale. He’s craving something, but it’s hard to tell what. Gluttony, alcohol, sex, money; they all smell the same. Crowley focusses on Aziraphale, but he’s still hard to read. Maybe he’s just thinking about the wine he has back at the shop? Or maybe it’s something in the same vein?   
  


“So why are you so taken with Wilde?” Crowley asks. He’ll probably regret this later, but he never has been the one for good decisions.

 

“Oh,” Aziraphale perks up, more than happy to talk about literature, “I first started reading his poetry. I suppose his works remind me of earth and all the good things it has to offer and the things I’ve found here.” Aziraphale moves closer so that his shoulder brushes Crowley’s. “Maybe I could read a couple poems to you back at the shop?”

 

And there it is again, the vice. It radiates off Aziraphale and Crowley can tell what it is now. It’s attraction. Not lust though, just a deep want for someone. The vice though is still hard to read perfectly, because it is buried in wave after wave of shame. He can’t even tell if it’s a romantic or platonic attraction, but it’s certainly not sexual. Crowley doubts the angel even realizes he’s feeling it. Why would this feeling be buried under so much shame? Crowley doesn’t know why, all he knows is that talking about Oscar Wilde triggered it. Now he can sense another vice, this time radiating from himself, jealousy.

  
  


“Crowley?” Aziraphale pokes Crowley’s arm after he doesn’t get a response.

 

“Yes, angel?” Crowley’s focus is broken and Aziraphale’s vice fades away into the din of the filth of London.

 

“Do you want to listen to a couple poems back at the shop?” Aziraphale coughs into his fists and turns slightly pink. “Over a bottle of wine, of course.”

 

Crowley wants to say no, wants to say that he should spend his time with Wilde if he’s so taken with him, wants to say that humans are frail and are gone in the blink of an eye. He wants to shout at Aziraphale, tell him that they’re the only ones that can know each other and know the pain of forever. But he doesn’t say that, because Aziraphale is looking at him with puppy dog eyes, the same look that convinced him to make Hamlet a hit.

 

“I could do with a glass of wine,” Crowley hums and gives his angel a kind smirk. 

 

“Oh wonderful.” Aziraphale looks quite pleased with himself. “I have a fantastic bottle that I think you’ll like.” He spends the rest of the walk home talking about the name of the wine, the age, the color and other wine things.

 

Back at the bookshop, Aziraphale hurries into the kitchen and returns with a couple bottles and two wine glasses. Crowley settles himself into a plush sofa while Aziraphale pours wine into the two glasses. The angel hands a glass to Crowley before grabbing a book of poems from a nearby shelf.

 

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Aziraphale points to the sofa that Crowley is lounging on. “I know we usually sit in separate chairs but, it’ll be easier to get more wine.” 

 

“Don’t mind at all.” Crowley is already halfway through his glass.

 

Aziraphale tops off Crowley’s glass before settling down. He takes a sip of his wine and begins to read from the book of poems. To an outside observer, the situation would look quite amorous, with the late night, small sofa, wine glasses, and romantic poetry. Of course, the implications of the situation are lost on the pair. Aziraphale is too focussed on good wine and even better poetry. Crowley is too focussed on not setting the book on fire.

 

Over the course of a month (which is quite short for an immortal), Crowley gets it in his head that he has to prove to Aziraphale that this Wilde fellow is not all he’s made out to be.

 

“Have you heard that Oscar Wilde has a wife?” Crowley asks one day in the bookshop.

 

Aziraphale looks up from his book and hot chocolate. “I’m aware.”

 

“Word on the street is that he’s not very faithful to her.” Crowley snakes his way over to a shelf and picks up a book.

 

“I hardly trust the word of the common folk.” Aziraphale snaps his book shut and walks over to Crowley. “Why don’t you start mingling with the upper class again? I’d imagine the Arrangement would be much easier if we were in the same place at the same time more often.”

 

“We’ll see, angel.”

 

After gathering more gossip, Crowley finds that Wilde favors a young man named Alfred Douglas and that his father is none too keen on the relationship. If Aziraphale won’t trust the word of the common folk, perhaps he’d trust the word of a Marquess. He popped over to the Queensberry residence for a quick tempting. 

 

_ That Wilde fellow is too close to your son _ , Crowley whispered into the Marquess’s ear as he did with Eve, as he did with every mortal. Not physically there, just an itch in the back of your mind that begs to be scratched.  _ You’ve been too soft on the boys, something a little more public should scare them away _ . 

 

The Marquess’s brow furrowed as the temptation takes root in his mind. Then he sits down in his study to write a calling card that would soon be delivered to Oscar Wilde’s gentlemen’s club.

 

A few months later (yes, Crowley put off telling Aziraphale, but he had let things stew for dramatic effect), Crowley saunters into the bookshop.

 

“Angel,” he called into the shop, “have you heard? The Marquess of Queensberry has accused Oscar Wilde of fraternizing with his son.”

 

“Of course I’ve heard.” Aziraphale appears from behind a bookshelf. “I know how to read the newspaper, same as you.”

 

“The newspaper?” Crowley wonders around the shop looking for the latest paper.

 

“Wilde has taken Queensberry to court for criminal libel.” Aziraphale places the daily paper in Crowley’s hand. “And I say good for him. If it’s not true, he shouldn’t be slandered.”

 

“But what if,” Crowley says, “it is true?” Oh, this is not good. Crowley didn’t want Wilde arrested, he just wanted to knock him down a few pegs.

 

“Well, we’ll just see how everything plays out.”

 

And they do. And oh boy does it play out.

 

Crowley walks into the bookshop in late May, less of saunter this time but it could still be described as such.

 

“Angel?” Crowley calls into the shop.

 

Aziraphale looks up from his book that he’s reading on the sofa. “Yes Crowley?”

 

“Are you doing alright?” Crowley sits down next to Aziraphale.

 

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale puts his book down and eyes Crowley suspiciously.

 

“Well,” Crowley worries his bottom lip. “Your favorite author just got imprisoned.”

 

“I wouldn’t say he’s my favourite.”

 

“But, surely this scandal is a bit heartbreaking.”

 

“Heartbreaking?” Aziraphale knits his eyebrows together in confusion. “Crowley, are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” Crowley hisses, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the one with a crush on Oscar Wilde.” There, he said it.

 

Aziraphale clasps a hand over his mouth, muffling a snort. “Pardon?”

 

“I thought you were, you know — ” Crowley coughs into his fist, turning slightly red “ — taken with him.”

 

Aziraphale sighs with a gentle smile. “Crowley, did you honestly think I had a crush on human?”

 

“No.” Crowley doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. For a demon, he’s really bad at lying.

 

Aziraphale gasps. “Oh my!” he smiles smugly. “Were you jealous?”

 

“I’m a demon,” Crowley hisses, “I don’t get jealous.”

 

Aziraphale places his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Humans are great and all but they don’t understand the ineffability of the universe.”

 

Crowley rolls his eyes, he hates when Aziraphale mentions the ineffable.

 

“Crowley, we’re friends. I’d never replace you with a human.” Aziraphale fishes around in his pocket and pulls out two slips of paper. “So, I was wondering if we could see a play tonight?”

 

Crowley grabs one of the tickets, fingers brushing Aziraphale’s. “I’d love to, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, leave a kudos or a comment, they make my day. This is part two of my Adventure in Time series, you can go back and read the first one, if you like. The next fic should be up in a week or two because I'll be at summer camp. Y'all are free to leave suggestions of your favorite time period and I might write a fic about it.


End file.
